Monday, February 20, 2017

Your Coffee

From hills in Central America
Or perhaps Africa
Precious Black Gold
Endures a voyage like no other

Such toil entailed
From harvesting trails
By sails to shores of America
Entrusted to your favorite barista

But your coffee
I dared not partake
For it told a tale
Before I availed
Of intentions neither golden
Nor precious –but sour

I confess, I foresaw
Coffee brewed:
-too hot with rage
-too stale with age
With ample chortles and snorts
Such bitterness your beans betrayed!

So you see
The only coffee
By which my being disarms
Is steeped with loving regard
For me

Tuesday, November 5, 2013


Amidst forlorn cries,
kittens look with learning eyes
-their new chosen’s smile

Written for Tweetspeak Poetry Press - Weekly Poetry Prompt: Cat Poetry via

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

On Recapturing Childhood Creativity - A Ghazal

The child who’s lost her hold as age deludes her skeptic girl
Fate knows, and her dreams for you behold optimistic, girl

Where, pray tell, have you misplaced your wildly budding mind’s eye?
Where dreams no longer blossom and betray eccentric, girl

Never ordinary at play any given young day
Reaps older, though rounded spirit -the altruistic girl

The blaze of Life’s to-do lists lets Time’s miser furl its fists
Bares a soul who’s lost her magic –a veiled artistic girl

And I, Marcella, need just stop and look beyond the glare
It’s always been in your child’s eyes to be prolific, girl!

Written for Every Day Poems/Tweetspeak Poetry Press - Weekly Poetry Prompt: Ghazal Poetry via

Featured at Every Day Poems/Tweetspeak Poetry Press at

Featured in Tweetspeak Poetry's Top Ten Posts From the Last Month at

Featured at Tweetspeak Poetry - Sing the Childhood Loss at

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Yellow Bus Memories

Yellow bus memories
Of summertime and childhood
Takes me along Western Highway
Seventy plus miles to then Santa Rosa,
District of Cayo,
From City of Belize,
In Central America

Of Batty Brothers Bus Line
By Pound Yard Bridge
Our point of departure
With excitement
And Spanish valises
To chickens up top

Belizeans -to relatives
Tourists -to ancient sites
Among others         
Their well-worn way
From a long work day

Past Spanish Lookout
-a Mennonite town
Where smiles breakout
As miles wind down
Humble homes decorate
Verdant Maya Mountain-scapes
Ah, I feel a belonging!

Next stop, Santa Elena,
Ours, Santa Rosa
Then, San Ignacio Town
-all sculpted by Macal and Mopan
As if separating Our West
From Their East
-I never wondered how we’d gotten along

Oh, but I couldn’t wait
For Mama Tina’s
Hand-made tortillas
In her smoke-filled cocina
Like her mother’s
And her mother’s mother’s

For a daily swim
In the pebble-bottomed river
Pulsing through
My abuelo’s back yard,
Its rocky, tree-lined pathway
Most likely chiseled by his father
And his father’s father

For my cousins,
To show us their games
My aunts and uncles,
To teach us their ways
Gifts handed down
Memories of which, to this day,

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Waking Up

Before I open my eyes
Before imprints of yesterday
Become visible through sunlit lids
Before I stretch into my persona’s housecoat
I am as grateful as a morning glory
-fully-kissed by the rising sun
I am free as a butterfly floating to nectar
–blissfully unaware of hungry sparrows nearby
I am there –I am that flower -that butterfly
Before my awakening dawns on me

Written for Every Day Poems/T.S. Poetry Press - Tuesday Poetry Prompt: Waking up via

Thursday, April 25, 2013


Good ole Penelope
Purple people-pleaser
She is
Never one to turn down
A chance
To show us around town

Eyes agog
Always open to fun
She is
Engine panting like a dog
After a mile-long chase
With a wide grin on her face

Neither rain nor snow
Nor age nor sun
That is
Slows this feisty
Little lady
Of a VW Beetle down

Photo by Krow 10, Creative Commons, via Flickr.

Friday, April 12, 2013

My Book

In my beginning
I sensed my shadow,
but refused to know it
An onionskin tome,
latched and locked
between hardened covers

Always looking away,
I was convinced:
It was too big
It was too heavy
It was not mine
It was a secret

Like a spectre –it loomed
and other shadows
drew upon it –took of it,
marked and tore its pages
In truth, I failed to defend
this misread book

As its edges grew ragged
and creases pierced me,
I wanted –needed
to unlock those stories
Introduce myself
Unfold my life

I heaved its cover,
let go of difficult words,
embraced each page,
smoothed careless dog-ears,
patched abusive tears,
and learned its purpose
-to serve, to love

Now I see it,
I am convinced:
It is big
I can carry it
It is mine
It is to be shared

Many chapters later,
I am peace-in-progress
I now walk with my shadow
Unfolding new stories
This is me –my life
My book to love
My book of love

Written for Every Day Poems Friday Poetry Prompt "Unfold My Life" via